In Secret. Chambers Robert William
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long ago you escaped from Holzminden camp?" repeated the girl, very pale.
"Who told you I had ever been there?—wherever that is!"
"You were there as a prisoner, were you not, Mr. McKay?"
"Where is that place?"
"In Germany on the River Weser. You were detained there under pretence of being an Englishman before we declared war on Germany. After we declared war they held you as a matter of course."
There was an ugly look in his eyes, now: "You seem to know a great deal about a drunkard you picked up in the snow near the Plaza fountain last night."
"Please don't speak so bitterly."
Quite unconsciously her gloved hand crept up on her fur coat until it rested over her heart, pressing slightly against her breast. Neither spoke for a few moments. Then:
"I do know something about you, Mr. McKay," she said. "Among other things I know that—that if you have become—become intemperate—it is not your fault…. That was vile of them-unutterably wicked-to do what they did to you—"
"Who are you?" he burst out. "Where have you learned-heard such things? Did I babble all this?"
"You did not utter a sound!"
"Then—in God's name—"
"Oh, yes, yes!" she murmured, "in God's name. That is why you and I are here together—in God's name and by His grace. Do you know He wrought a miracle for you and me—here in New York, in these last hours of this dreadful year that is dying very fast now?
"Do you know what that miracle is? Yes, it's partly the fact that you did not die last night out there on the street. Thirteen degrees below zero! … And you did not die…. And the other part of the miracle is that I of all people in the world should have found you!… That is our miracle."
Somehow he divined that the girl did not mean the mere saving of his life had been part of this miracle. But she had meant that, too, without realising she meant it.
"Who are you?" he asked very quietly.
"I'll tell you: I am Evelyn Erith, a volunteer in the C. E. D. Service of the United States."
He drew a deep breath, sank down on his elbow, and rested his head on the pillow.
"Still I don't see how you know," he said. "I mean—the beastly details—"
"I'll tell you some time. I read the history of your case in an intercepted cipher letter. Before the German agent here had received and decoded it he was arrested by an agent of another Service. If there is anything more to be learned from him it will be extracted.
"But of all men on earth you are the one man I wanted to find. There is the miracle: I found you! Even now I can scarcely force myself to believe it is really you."
The faintest flicker touched his eyes.
"What did you want of me?" he inquired.
"Help."
"Help? From such a man as I? What sort of help do you expect from a drunkard?"
"Every sort. All you can give. All you can give."
He looked at her wearily; his face had become pallid again; the dark hollows of dissipation showed like bruises.
"I don't understand," he said. "I'm no good, you know that. I'm done in, finished. I couldn't help you with your work if I wanted to. There's nothing left of me. I am not to be depended on."
And suddenly, in his eyes of a boy, his self-hatred was revealed to her in one savage gleam.
"No good," he muttered feverishly, "not to be trusted—no will-power left…. It was in me, I suppose, to become the drunkard I am—"
"You are NOT!" cried the girl fiercely. "Don't say it!"
"Why not? I am!"
"You can fight your way free!" His laugh frightened her.
"Fight? I've done that. They tried to pump me that way, too—tried to break me—break my brain to pieces—by stopping my liquor…. I suppose they thought I might really go insane, as they gave it back after a while—after a few centuries in hell—and tried to make me talk by other methods—
"Don't, please." She turned her head swiftly, unable to control her quivering face.
"Why not?"
"I can't bear it."
"I'm sorry. I didn't mean to shock you."
"I know." She sat for a while with head averted; and presently spoke, sitting so:
"We'll fight it, anyway," she said.
"What do you mean?"
"If you'll let me—"
After a silence she turned and looked at him. He stammered, very red:
"I don't quite know why you speak to me so."
She herself was not entirely clear on that point, either. After all, her business with this man was to use him in the service of her Government."
"What is THE GREAT SECRET?" she asked calmly.
After a long while he said, lying there very still: "So you have even heard about that."
"I have heard about it; that is all."
"Do you know what it is?"
"All I know about it is that there is such a thing—something known to certain Germans, and by them spoken of as THE GREAT SECRET. I imagine, of course, that it is some vital military secret which they desire to guard."
"Is that all you know about it?"
"No, not all." She looked at him gravely out of very clear, honest eyes:
"I know, also, that the Berlin Government has ordered its agents to discover your whereabouts, and to'silence' you."
He gazed at her quite blandly for a moment, then, to her amazement, he laughed—such a clear, untroubled, boyish laugh that her constrained expression softened in sympathy.
"Do you think that Berlin doesn't mean it?" she asked, brightening a little.
"Mean it? Oh, I'm jolly sure Berlin means it!"
"Then why—"
"Why do I laugh?"
"Well—yes. Why do you? It does not strike me as very humorous."
At that he laughed again—laughed so whole-heartedly, so delightfully, that the winning smile curved her own lips once more.
"Would you tell me why you laugh?" she inquired.
"I don't know. It seems so funny—those Huns, those Boches, already smeared from hair to feet with blood—pausing in their wholesale butchery to devise a plan to murder ME!"
His face altered; he raised himself on one elbow:
"The swine have turned all Europe into a bloody wallow. They're belly-deep in it—Kaiser and knecht! But that's only part of it. They're destroying souls by millions!… Mine is already damned."
Miss Erith sprang to her feet: "I tell you not to say such a thing!" she cried, exasperated. "You're as young as I am! Besides, souls are not slain by murder. If they perish it's suicide, ALWAYS!"
She began to pace the white room nervously, flinging open her fur coat as she turned and came straight back to his bed again. Standing there and looking down at him she said:
"We've got to fight it out. The country needs you. It's your bit and you've got to do it. There's a cure for alcoholism—Dr. Langford's cure. Are you afraid because you think it may hurt?"
He lay looking up at her with hell's own glimmer in his eyes again:
"You don't know what you're talking about," he said. "You talk of cures, and I tell you that I'm half dead for a drink right now! And I'm going to get up and dress and get it!"
The expression of his features and his voice and words appalled her, left her dumb for an instant. Then she said breathlessly:
"You won't